The Obsidian Spire
by volibear
Summary: Citizens are disappearing. The king is missing. The People desire order. They will not remain idle for long. *LOOKING TO REWRITE*
1. My name is Sparrow

**I wanted to try writing a different version of the Fable II storyline. And this is what I came up with. Please read and review!**

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When my parents told me the world was a rough place, they weren't joking. True carelessness can land you in a situation most undesirable - such as this one.

"C'mon, get up yeh dickless shrimp!" The thug laughed. For the fifth time, his rugged boot slammed into my gut, sending another round of blood flying from my mouth. The salty taste flooded my voice. My breathing could have easily been mistaken for wretches. I wanted to get up and run, but my body felt like pudding with nerve endings. My muscles were sore - or was it just all the bruises? Out of nowhere, a lead pipe swung into my peripheral vision, and with a sickening crack made contact with my nose. I cried out, though it sounded like a strangled cough. Tears were streaming down my face. It hurt so much. My whole body was in so much pain. How many times had they shot me? How many times was I beaten and tossed around? How many bones had they broken? How much of this blood on the ground belonged to me? I wanted to die.

"Not so tough now, are ya? Useless piece of shit!" Another thug growled, kicking my back for good measure. I heard him spit, but there was no way for me to know where. I didn't care. _Just kill me already._

"Bitch," something hit my stomach.

"Weak!" somebody kicked my ribs.

I closed my eyes. I could feel my consciousness fading. My pain began to slowly disappear. I was still there, but everything was so numb. Was I dying? Had they finally succeeded in killing me? My vision was now gone, but I could still hear my surroundings.

"Haha! Look at 'im! He won't fight back!"

"Hold on, stop, stop... I SAID STOP!"

"What's with you, Edgar?"

"Cor Blimey, I think we killed 'im!"

A louder voice:

"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?!"

"The guard! Cheese it, Sabin!"

"But what about..."

"BLOODY HELL, RUN!"

"Stop - I SAID-!! Bloody cats, what have they done?!"

"Captain?"

"Bring him to the medic, quickly!"

"Yes sir!"

And then, everything stopped.

My mind was floating, drifting, and sometimes I lost it. I had visions. Good visions, and bad ones, too. I dreamt of home-baked pie and chasing chickens on the old farm. Father was milking the cows. And I ran right into him as the chicken dashed through the cow's legs. I froze, expecting to be scolded, but Father only smiled and hugged me warmly. Mother called out to us from the house, announcing dinner. Father and I strolled into the house as the sun set under the horizon.

And then, the house was grey. Tables overturned, holes in the stairway, and a fire cackling madly around a kitchen that would never cook apple pie again. There were two dark figures sprawled out in the room, but I looked away. I didn't want to see. I hated seeing blood.

"Sparrow!" cried a small voice. It was Allen, my little brother. I looked down, and there he was, his little arms raised, reaching for me, tiny fingers spread out as if grasping for my comfort. I picked him up, his tiny figure light in my arms.

"Little Sparrow," coaxed a calm voice behind me, "Come with me, little Sparrow."

My eyes shot open. I was staring up at an illuminated ceiling, with grainy shadows scrambling across it like ants working busily to gather food. Rain pelted the room from all sides, landing particularly hard on the window above my head. I felt my sense of touch return to my fingers, then to my hands and my arms. I sighed. I was still alive. Those punks hadn't murdered me after all.

When I heard the door creak open, I gazed over toward the light that now flooded the room with my tired eyes. My gaze was returned by a pair of innocent ceruleans.

"Sparrow?" came a small voice, "Are you awake?"

I heard a gunshot outside as the illumination on the ceiling flashed. There were a few shouts and more shots were exchanged.

"I suppose," I replied. My voice came out weaker than I expected.

"Good," he replied, and trotted over to my bed, "Are you alright?"

"I will be."

"You don't sound so sure," he said, frowning. I looked at him. Allen was the youngest of our surviving family. When our parents were killed, he was only three years old, so he couldn't remember very much about them. He must have understood something was wrong at the time, however, since his hair has grown out white ever since. But Rose and I were older, and we remembered everything.

King Lucien has been in power for years - years spent not on the prosperity of his nation of Albion, but for purposes unknown to us. Albion, fallen into a depression caused not by war or drought, was becoming a land of danger and crime. His failure to respond to the people's needs unleashed a chain reaction. Some wealthier folks left the country in search of better lives. But others were less fortunate - those who hadn't enough gold to buy food for even a day. There were riots. Crime was all over, and leaving your safety zone to find something to eat was about as safe as taking a walk in Wraithmarsh at night. In fact, gold was hardly even used anymore. If you couldn't steal, you couldn't survive.

Our family lived in the countryside, on a little farm in Oakfield. With King Lucien's cruel tyranny reaching even one of the most peaceful and beautiful of counties in Albion, Oakfield was not protected from threats of any sort.

Rose and I and little Allen spent an entire night fleeing the town, trying to get as far away from the bandits as we could. It was difficult sneaking through Oakfield under the cover of night and at the mercy of the flames. It was even harder dashing through Rookridge with blind hope that no bandits had followed us, or were waiting to stop us.

And now I wonder - why hadn't we just kept running? We could have found salvation in another nation. Somewhere you wouldn't have to go far to find a smile or caring eyes. A place that bandits and highwaymen feared to confront the guards, or better, where bad men ceased to exist. Rose would always chuckle at how naïve I was. But was it really the best choice to seek refuge in Bowerstone, the very capitol of Albion and the residence of the core cause of our nation's grief?

"Where's Rose?" I asked as Allen used a cold sponge to clean up a bloodied gash on my arm.

"She's around; helping the other hurt people."

I nodded. For a seven-year-old, little Allen had seen a lot in his lifetime. All children here have. It wasn't just the adults who would riot. With the guards so focused on keeping the city in one piece, the children who were tucked away in the shadows of alleyways and digging holes under homes to keep out of the rain were subject to civil war. Sometimes I thought the children were worse than the adults. If you weren't older than twelve, you would be beaten and mistreated. Older than twelve, you were feared and always challenged. It was a nonstop fight for survival. That's why Rose and I decided to live in the clinic. It was the best decision we had ever made. To keep our safety zone, Rose worked. She assisted the doctors in treating and healing the men and women who came into the clinic. In most cases, none were ever released alive. Poor Rose had seen more death than any child should.

"What were you doing?" Allen suddenly asks me, his voice accusing. I don't answer, but I turn my head toward the window where the rain is pummeling it. He shakes his head in disapproval.

"Rose will be angry at you," he reminds me.

"I know," I returned. Rose was such a worrywart. She hated it when I went outside for any reason without her. She was like a mother to us, even though she was our sister, and was only a year older than I - twelve. I admired her protection. She and Allen were the only family I had left. The only people I could rely on to find a caring embrace or warm smile...

"SPARROW. YOU. BLOODY. IDIOT!"

Allen quickly backed away from me as Rose burst into the room. The look on his face was almost sympathetic. Rose stormed over to me and just as fast as she arrived at my bedside did her tired hand fly across my cheek. I blinked up in confusion, rubbing the spot she had slapped.

"You - y-you idiot! You sodding twit! You could have been killed! You almost WERE dead!! D-d-do you realise just how m-m-much you..." her voice choked and she tackled me, her arms flying around my neck in a crushing embrace. She was sobbing into my chest.

"I'm sorry Rose I-"

"No! No, quiet, you. You're just so daft... just... just don't talk!"

"Rose?"

"Never again, Sparrow. Don't you get it now? They'll kill you. You'll die just like that. Just like... like Mum and Dad..."

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Once again I awaken to the sounds of eerie silence. Such a vivid memory I have. It was like that day was yesterday. Wasn't it?

No, that day was months ago.

Months ago that began and ended with waking to the same sounds of shouts in the streets and gunfire. But that ends now. I hear silence. Should I be happy? Or disturbed? I dare to look out the window - and almost stumble back in surprise. I saw a group of people in the town square, all gathered, but not fighting. This was extremely odd to see, I thought. I quickly raced downstairs. I wasn't surprised to find Rose and Allen watching this scene from the doorway. Allen noticed me first.

"Sparrow, look!" he points toward the group enthusiastically.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"There's a fortune teller," answered the doctor, who had apparently been listening, "Came to Bowerstone this mornin'. Said she could lead a revolution."

I looked at Rose. She returned my gaze with an insecure grimace. A revolution? Did she mean we could resolve our crisis? No more fights? No more bloodlust? No more injury and crime and death? I wanted to know. I darted out the door without a moment's hesitation and no sooner did I enter the crowd did I realise what I had done. I felt vulnerable. With so many years fearing large groups - groups that could turn into drunken brawls without a moment's notice - I had just blindly run into one of them. But it was strange how nobody seemed to be paying any attention to anybody other than the woman standing before the crowd.

The fortune teller was young in appearance. With long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a peach-colored face, it was blatant she wasn't from Albion. Otherwise, there would have been a scar or two.

"People, I have seen your suffering," she cried, throwing up her hands, "It is unspeakable! Why all the fighting? Why all the hate?"

"Taxes!" squawked an elderly woman, raising what appeared to be a broom. Although she probably didn't use it to sweep dust or dirt.

"There's no food!" barked a man.

Several shouts and complaints echoed from the crowd. The young woman waved her arms desperately.

"People, please! We must be calm! I know what to do, listen!" The woman turned around dramatically and pointed a finger toward the castle.

"Fight not each other! Don't you all suffer the same? And who has caused your grief? Who sits upon his throne, wealthy and fed, safe from harm?"

There were mumbles scattered throughout the crowd.

"Sparrow... I don't like this. I think... I think we should leave," Rose warned, grabbing my hand. I was still watching, rapt, as the woman spoke desperately to the crowd. The people didn't seem to be sitting well with her 'leadership'. I allowed Rose to pull me out. We stood before the clinic, still watching, but from afar.

"She's got the right idea, but she's not looking in the right place."

Rose and I jumped, turning around. There stood another woman, older, with a hood obscuring her features. All I could make out was her eerie blank eyes. Perhaps she was blind.

"What do you mean?" Rose demanded, moving in front of me. The old woman looked down at us.

"Don't you think the people are blind? Have they gone too feral to return to their old ways?"

"A lot for you to say, seeing as you're rather blind yourself," Rose retorted. The woman smiled.

"Perhaps it is a matter of will rather than force, young Sparrow," the woman said cryptically, before turning and walking away into a nearby alleyway.

"Wait! What do you-" Rose ran after her. She froze at the entrance to the alley, then turned and looked at me.

"S-she's gone..."

There was a scream in the crowd. Several shouts erupted in the group as they pounced upon the poor fortune teller, and then proceeded to duke it out amongst themselves.

"We should go in, Sparrow, come on."

I could tell she was as disturbed as I was. But not about the riot that had just broken out. Allen watched us with bright, intelligent eyes as we shut the door of the clinic, securing the locks and blocking the door with a plank. Who was that old woman, and how did she know who I was? Allen had not met her, but I could see in his eyes, he felt the disturbance shared among Rose and I.

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**Please review! I might not update again if I don't get any feedback. I usually only write when people will like it... so just please let me know if I should continue or not! Thanks!**


	2. I don't believe in Heroes

**Sorry this took longer than I meant it to. I've been very busied by housework and Yearbook, so my time on the computer was limited. But I finally have the second part finished, so yay!**

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"It's nasty, what is it?"

"I dunno, but I've seen Rose with them before."

"Leave it alone, what if it's poisonous?"

"Well then I certainly wouldn't want it on my face!"

My eyes were fixed on my own face reflected in the mirror. Allen was leaning forward, eyes big and curious. We were both examining a red abomination that appeared on my cheek this morning. I felt like I shouldn't be worrying about it too much, but it was bothering me a little bit. It might be a disease I'd caught off the streets. I'd been going outside a lot more than before since I'd turned thirteen. Rose felt more at ease with me among other children, but she still wouldn't allow Allen the same luxury since he was still only ten.

I turned my attention toward one of the empty beds in the clinic. Ever since last year, there have been less and less people in the clinic. The doctor said it was because there were less people in Bowerstone. At first, we thought perhaps some were able to escape the madness somehow. But then, one of the doctor's acquaintances, another doctor in Bloodstone, mentioned in a letter that the same thing was happening in his locale. All four of us found this rather dodgy; why would so many people from different counties in Albion disappear suddenly without effective means of communication? Very strange indeed, since there's only one way to successfully deliver a message out of town - and it is very expensive. Messengers who could brave the dangers of the outside world were difficult to come across, and most held demanding prices for their services.

"Is this yours?" I asked Allen, picking up a book sitting half-covered by the bed sheets. It was an ancient-looking text with tattered pages and a faded cover. I had to squint to read the name on the front: "Book of Spells"

"Oh! There it is!" Allen squawked, reaching for the old book. I swear I could see his eyes sparkle as he took hold of it. I chuckled. Allen has developed bookworm fever. Ever since he picked up a book about magick, he wouldn't put it down and has been reading ever since - namely of books about this "willpower". I'd never asked him about it much, since I have never been fascinated by books like him; I did wonder, however, just what sparked his interest in the subject.

"So do you really believe in magick?" I asked him as we sauntered downstairs. Allen looked up at me, holding the book to his chest as if I was about to try taking it from him.

"It's called willpower," he chirped, "And I think it existed. I mean, when there were Heroes."

I sighed, grimacing. Allen was very intelligent for his age, but often he surprised me with how naïve he could be.

"You know that's just an old story. How are you so sure people like that existed? It's impossible. You can't just shoot lightening out of your fingertips whenever you feel like it, or cook waffles on the fly."

"But Heroes could! They could also fire an arrow from a mile away and still hit a beetle in the face!" Allen returned, sounding offended.

I rolled my eyes. This wasn't getting anywhere. I decided to drop it.

"Since when do beetles have faces?" Allen screwed up his own face and gave me a funny look.

"What are you talking about? Of course they have faces!"

I laughed and ruffled his white hair.

"Hey!" he pushed my hand off and proceeded to chase me the rest of the way to the ground floor. Downstairs, the doctor was busied treating a little girl's injury. She looked like she was about to cry, but her lip was curled under her teeth and it was easy to see she was attempting to be more grown up than she was. I turned away as the doctor picked up a scalpel from his little table.

Rose was in the kitchen, as she was every morning, doing what she could to put food on the table. Of course, today breakfast was but a few slices of bread she happened to have. She was very strict about keeping rations so we wouldn't eat more than she could fetch. When she noticed us, she gestured toward the table.

"Go on, Doc and I already ate. What were you boys doing up there?" she asked, cleaning a plate with a rag.

"Sparrow has Syphilis," Allen said before shoving his entire slice into his mouth. Rose raised her brows. I elbowed our little brother in the chest.

"No I don't. It's nothing to worry about, Rose. Just this little red thing," I pointed to my forehead, "maybe I'll ask Doc to take a look at it later." Rose followed my finger to the little red dot. After a moment, she raised a hand to her mouth and coughed - but it sounded like a chuckle. I furrowed my brows.

"What is it?"

"You're growing up, Sparrow."

"I'm _what_?"

"That's a zit. You get them when you... well when you grow up."

"_Them?_"

"Well, yes, there will be more."

I stared at her. Surely she must be joking. But her face was so... perfect. Maybe girls didn't get them. Or maybe you stop getting them after you're fifteen.

"Why don't you eat? I need to talk to Doc."

She set the plate down and strut out of the room. I reached up and felt the little bump. Me? Growing up? Why hadn't I realised this before? This was a symbol of my maturity. How could I ever think it was some freaky disease? This meant I was a man. I smiled, picking up the slice of bread and biting into it.

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Only a week has passed, and the autumn was quickly turning into winter. Since there was only so many warm clothing around the clinic, and most were being worn by the patients, only one of us could go outside at once without freezing. As a result, Allen hated winter because he wasn't allowed outside all season. I felt bad for him, but there wasn't much I could do for him as long as Rose was in charge. One day he asked me to buy him a book. Since his birthday was soon, I'd decided in favor of it.

Fifteen gold pieces jingled in my pocket as a ran down the cobbled market street, gloved hands stuffed deep into my pockets. I tried to keep my eyes ahead of me, a technique used simply for protection. Wandering eyes were punishable by those that met them. The book store was tattered and abandoned looking, as most structures here were, but with careful observation, one might be able to spot a small candlelight from the inside. I wrapped a shivering hand over the doorknob, and twisted it slowly open. Inside, it wasn't much warmer than it was outside. There was an old man sitting at a table in the corner, reading a book by a flickering candle. His beard looked like it got snowed on and his big, round glasses made his eyes appear larger than they probably were. He turned in his seat as I entered, startled by the sudden onslaught of activity. His magnified eyes grew impossibly large.

"Oh! Oh! Goodness, boy, you gave me a start!" he exclaimed, his voice very old indeed.

"Sorry, didn't think you would mind. I mean, since it's a shop, after all," I mumbled. The man thumbed his glasses further up his hooked nose.

"Well, shut the door, won't you? I've only got one candle, after all. You've got gold, don't you?" I nodded as I shut the door gently, the breeze suddenly disappearing.

"Alright, have a gander, then. Mind you don't drop anything, some of these books are a bit fragile."

When the old shopkeeper returned to his reading, hunched over the table to appease his poor vision, I walked over to the shelves and began reading the spines. I noticed that the books were sorted into categories. On the shelf in the corner I found books such as "Norm and Aggie" and "Cold Lips". One of the shelves by the stairs was crammed with manuals and handbooks, and other miscellaneous rubbish that looked like torn pages. I opened up one of them out of curiosity, and immediately closed it after seeing the word "thrust."

After a few minutes, I picked out a book for Allen titled "Barnum's Thesaurus." I thought he might like it. Maybe he could find another word for syphilis. I started back toward the old man, eager to pay for the book and leave, when something caught my eye. There was a book sticking out of the shelf by its spine. _Must've knocked it down_, I reckoned, reaching out to straighten it up. It was very small compared to the other books on the shelf, like a journal. It was old and dusty, and the wavy pages looked as if they were submerged in water some time ago. I pushed it back into the shelf, but I couldn't let go of it. I grimaced. I couldn't explain it, but there was something very intriguing about the book. I felt like there was something I needed to see. Like if I didn't read this...

I glanced over at where the old man was reading. He was still distracted by his book. I pulled the old journal off the shelf and slipped it into a pocket inside my coat. Then I sauntered back to where he sat and paid nine gold for the thesaurus.

I slipped back into the bitter cold, but my pocket felt a little hot. I still had ten gold. Maybe I could afford something to eat. There was only one stall open in the Old Town, probably because the man running it was wearing three coats and a blunderbuss, so I stopped by there. The man was unusually kind for a change, and offered me a small discount so I could afford a trout. He probably didn't get enough company. With that, I thanked him and made my way back to the clinic with two books, a fish, and one gold piece. I slapped the trout down on the table just as Rose passed by the kitchen.

"Oh, thank you Sparrow! Fish is a nice for a change."

"You're welcome. Just make sure you keep bugs off of it this time..."

Later that night, I sat down on my bed and kicked off my shoes. Allen and Rose were playing a card game downstairs with Doc, but I told them I was tired and that I would go to bed early. I crossed my legs on the bed and immediately fished the journal out of my coat pocket. I held it out before myself for a moment, examining its worn jacket. I ran a hand across its surface to dust it off, but apparently the "dust" was just wear on the old leather. Slowly, I thumbed it open, and I found handwritten pages throughout. The ink was smeared in places, making it nearly impossible to read. Frowning, I flipped through its stiff yellow pages until I found something readable. But I only found one page. Thank goodness there was at least something. I want to know who this person was. I began to read the blurry ink.

"_Though the Old Kingdom vanished centuries ago, pieces of it remain scattered throughout Albion. The Guild in its magnificent glory, ruined architectural corpses, dark and unholy secrets throbbing beneath the earth. But more survives than stone and magic. For there is still among us the living legacy of the Kingdom itself. A lineage that is connected with all that made the Kingdom great and somehow ended up destroying it._"

The next few words were too smudged to read, so I skipped it. The journal seemed more like a history book than a personal log of ones life.

"_Though generations separate them from the days of the fall, there walk today survivors of this bloodline, and an ancient power courses through their veins. They may live as Heroes or they may hide among the masses, but their link to the sword wielded by Archon himself, the sword of Aeons, is confirmed in all the documents I have unearthed. If I can find the living descendants of this bloodline, I may be able to uncover what happened to the sword, and perhaps the days of the Old Kingdom can be restored. There is one to whom all the signs direct me. Though she lives a quiet life now, she has done much to mark her as the one. And now the bloodline continues through her children. A son and a daughter. And the power that lives in her will be passed on to them one day._"

I bit my lip. This was just ancient superstitious rubbish. Why did I feel so inclined to read it? I threw the thing under my bed. Somebody must have had a theory that there was some magic bloodline out there. A magic bloodline that defined a person as a Hero. I huffed. Rubbish. It was all rubbish. Magick doesn't exist. It never did. And there most certainly weren't Heroes. If there were, Albion wouldn't be like this. It would be safe, and king Lucien...

Well, king Lucien never communicated with his people. Most guards didn't even know him. Some of us wonder if he's even living in Castle Fairfax now. Since the untimely deaths of his wife and child, Lucien has become more isolated than ever. I'd thought by now there would have been a riot inside the castle. But if they had already done that, wouldn't they have found him? Did they already kill him? Did we even have a king anymore?

I turned on my stomach and groaned into the mattress. I had a headache all of a sudden. It wasn't for thinking so hard, but the world just seemed to become that much darker. I felt sick. As if something bad was about to happen, and I was feeling a foreshadowing cloud over my head. I didn't understand it, but I wanted it to go away. And the only way I knew how to do that was by sleeping.

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**I hope you caught that hint that the story is about to take off in a new direction. Oh, and yes, I decided Sparrow will be male. It's just easier using the 'default' gender. But you can always use your imagination, if you want. Please review!**


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